Ransom

by Belle Ami

  Clearly he’d lost his mind or was suffering from delusions. How could his mother possibly be like her? His mother, an oppressed woman who’d in all likelihood spent her life under the thumb of a misogynist terrorist. A man who was never there for her and probably cheated on her countless times. One thing Zara was certain of, there was no way in hell she would ever share her fate.

  The car stopped, and Mustafa vaulted out. The door to a Mediterranean style farmhouse opened and barking sheepdogs, and three children came bounding outside.

  “Uncle Mustafa!”

  With two boys and a girl clinging to his legs he made his way around the Mercedes and opened Zara’s door and handed her out. The children froze and gaped at her.

  “Ismael, Samir, and Assi, this is my friend Zara.”

  Not knowing what else to do Zara smiled and bent to kiss the cheek of each child as they chorused their hellos. She’d never been good with children and was relieved to see three adults exit the house. The two women were traditionally dressed in hijab which covered their hair. She wished she’d worn something other than jeans and a sweater. She tried not to think of what they would think of the burgundy stripes in her hair.

  “Allah, be praised, my son.” Mustafa embraced his mother, sister, and brother-in-law.

  When the pleasantries were fulfilled, their gazes turned to Zara. “This is my friend Zara. Zara, my mother, Merjan.”

  Merjan’s grey-green eyes not dissimilar to Zara’s observed her. Zara offered her hand, and Mustafa’s mother took it within both of hers. “My son does not often bring friends to our home. I am pleased to meet you.”

  With his mother’s welcome, the discomfort dissipated. Mustafa’s sister and brother-in-law invited her into their home.

  They sat in a large room furnished with heavy wood furniture and Persian rugs. A fire in the stone fireplace warmed the room. Merjan and Amal served tea in the French way from a fine bone china set painted with roses and served a delicate honey cake glazed with a warm applesauce frosting.

  “Zara, were you born in France?” Merjan asked.

  “No, I was born in Tunisia. My family moved to Marseilles when I was a child. My father was a physician. He is retired now.”

  “You must miss your family.”

  Zara looked out the window. “Yes, but I visit them as often as my work allows. I’m a journalist.”

  “You are not married?”

  Zara smiled. “No. Allah has not blessed me in that way.”

  “Ami,” Mustafa interrupted. “May I speak to you alone for a moment?”

  Merjan rose. “Of course, my son.” Mustafa followed her out of the room. In Mustafa’s absence, his sister and brother questioned Zara about life in France. Their interest in Arab life in France was keen. They questioned her about education, religious freedoms, and of all things the Eiffel Tower.

  “Do you have a desire to visit France?

  “Yes, we are curious about life there,” Amal answered.

  Zara sipped her tea. “You must go then. It would be a lovely experience for the children.” She wondered how safe their lives would be if Hezbollah unleashed Armageddon. Israel would never target the family of a terrorist unless they themselves were terrorists. However, for their children's sake, it certainly would be safer to be in France than here.

  When Mustafa returned, he was beaming. His mother’s expression was unreadable. Zara sensed she was disturbed by what had passed between her and her son.

  “Amal, I hope you’ve not told Zara any tales about me.” He winked at his sister.

  “Do you mean the one about you falling down the well?”

  Zara laughed. “What well?”

  He slapped his head. “Spare me from that old tired story. Isn’t it time you put that one to rest?”

  “Never. Zara, when we were children, Mustafa was always hearing voices. He believed he’d been chosen to commune with angels. One day he thought he heard an angel calling to him from our well.” Amal leaned forward. “He leaned so far over he fell in.” Amal broke into laughter until tears filled her eyes. “I guess there must have been an angel because instead of falling to the bottom, his pants snagged on the bucket hook. His screams brought Ummah running, and she fished him out. I remember you hanging by a thread Mustafa, upside down, your pants torn with your butt bare for all the world to see. You bleated like a motherless goat.” Amal bleated, “Maaaa, maaaa, maaaa.”

  Mustafa spread his arms and hands out. “Where is the justice, Razaan? Can’t you control your wife?”

  Razaan shrugged. “She’s your sister. What would you have me do?”

  “Muzzle her.” He turned to Zara, offering his hand. “Come Zara, let us leave these traitors before they fill you with more nonsense. I want to show you the farm and orchards. We can walk down to the river. It’s quite lovely.” He grabbed a couple of woolen blankets from a stack near the fireplace.

  Outside, Mustafa took her hand, and she pulled it away.

  “Mustafa, they can see us. What will they think if they see you holding my hand?” To her, it seemed ridiculous to instigate their disapproval.

  He grabbed her hand back, holding it firmly in his grasp. “I don’t care who sees. I will show affection to whom I choose.” He raised her palm to his lips and kissed it. “You still don’t understand, Zara. My marriage was touchless, loveless, emotionless. I’m like a man who’s lived in the desert alone without human contact. God has led me to you. You are my oasis and I will never want again.”

  “You are placing to much faith in me, Mustafa. I may disappoint you.”

  “Never.”

  They walked past a pen with a dozen goat. “Maaaa, maaaa,” Mustafa bleat back at them as they walked on.

  Once they’d left the mountains, the weather had changed. The snow had ceased, and except for a smattering of dark clouds hovering over the mountains, the sky was clear. The last of the day’s sunshine broke through the cloud cover warming the crisp air. Mustafa swung her hand in his as she did her best to keep up with his large stride. They slipped into an orchard of fig and olive trees and followed a path descending down to a river. Mustafa chattered on about the groves and how farming interested him. He’d been in high-spirits since their arrival at his family’s home. Zara found herself drawn into his joyful observations. She was fascinated by his desire to own a vineyard and cultivate wine. He was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She wasn’t sure which Mustafa was the real one. When they reached the river, they walked along its bank until they found a secluded spot where Mustafa spread out a blanket.

  The sound of gurgling water flowing over stones and the caw of crows calling to each other filled the silence. It felt idyllic and far removed from city life, and even further removed from a world forever teetering between peace and war. Under different circumstances, his courtship of her would make sense. She was struck by the absurdity of pretending they belonged together, but she was keenly aware he was oblivious to the incongruity. In his mind they were well matched.

  They sat on the blanket and Zara wrapped her arms around her knees and shivered. He grabbed the other blanket and wrapped it around both of them. “What did you and your mother discuss?”

  “I told her that you were the woman I was meant to love.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “You didn’t?” She couldn’t imagine what his mother must be thinking. She hoped the woman’s love of her son was stronger than the hate she must be feeling for her, a stranger who’d swept in and turned his life upside down.

  “I did, Zara. I needed her to know how I felt.” He searched her eyes.

  “What did she say?”

  “She was worried, but she understood. She told me to follow my heart.” Mustafa brushed his lips over hers and she felt warmth travel through her body. He pulled her down beside him and they kissed. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for hours. I look forward to a time and place where I can kiss you whenever I want.”

  He stole kisses from her at every opportunity and felt no hesi
tancy in telling her he loved her. The urgency of his kisses made her gasp. Her heart fluttered in her chest and her uneven breaths were a dead giveaway to his ability to arouse her. “You’d better stop, mon amour.”

  He smiled and caught his breath. “No matter how you try, Zara, you can’t hide from me.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “One day I will make love to you on a blanket in a vineyard.”

  His romancing of her was having an effect. It reminded her that all of her past relationships were based on falsehoods. Bringing her to meet his family was having an effect. It separated him from every man that had come before. It proved he was serious about their relationship. Meeting his family humanized him. If the truth of what he planned to do wasn’t staring her in the face she could easily picture herself falling in love with him. Rather than deal with her mixed emotions, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Fight fire with fire. Like a mantra she repeated. I’m not in love with him. I’m not in love with him. I’m an actress in a play. When the curtain falls the play must end with his downfall.

  »»•««

  Beqaa Valley, Lebanon

  Zara and Mustafa bid farewell to Mustafa’s family. Zara said nothing when he again pulled over to the side of the road, and the sack was dropped over her head. The feeling of not being able to take a proper breath paralyzed her into silence.

  Perhaps thirty minutes later Mustafa removed the bag. They’d stopping at an imposing iron gate. A man holding an AR-15 saluted and slid back the heavy gate. The car entered a treelined road that wound through row upon row of planted vines. After about a quarter of a mile, they approached a sprawling farmhouse. From the outside, it seemed nothing special, and Zara wondered what modern amenities the house might have. By the look of the security fence and guard house, she’d been expecting a fortress of some kind. The house needed painting, and there were tiles missing from the roof. It’s a deception. It has to be technologically and defensively state-of-the-art. The risk would be too great to be otherwise.

  Whatever was lacking on the exterior was more than made up for in the interior. A large overstuffed sofa and recliners faced a fireplace where a roaring fire burned. Inside everything was meticulously placed and decorated. Again, it wasn’t what she expected. The only thing missing was a pair of cozy slippers in front of the easy chair. The scent of spices simmering wafted in the air. Food. In all of the commotion of getting out of Beirut, all they’d eaten was a piece of cake and she was hungry.

  “We’ll have some lunch, and then you can get settled. I have to check in on the project and will leave you for a time.”

  She yawned and smiled. “I think I’ll take a nap while you’re out. A lot has happened in such a short time. Am I free to wander around should I decide to walk through the vineyard?”

  “Zara, you need to know the property is secured by an electric fence, which is monitored, and guarded, but you are free to go where you wish. I only ask you do not leave the compound. I warn you, all of the communication systems are monitored and unbreachable without a system code. By the way, it’s the reason I haven’t searched you for a phone. It won’t work here. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Zara, but I don’t.” He took her in his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. “Forgive me. Eventually, I will.”

  She relaxed in his embrace. “I wouldn’t trust me either if I were you. I’ll abide by your rules for now.” Did he really think she couldn’t hack into his system and get past his firewalls if she chose? He probably had no idea how typical he was of Arab men. He knew she was a spy, yet he had no concept of what she was capable of. Just as well, she thought. It makes everything so much easier for me. Big mistake mon amour, you should have taken my phone. Her cellphone worked on technology that didn’t require Wi-Fi, it routed directly through a satellite.

  He laughed. “And one day, I promise you, I’ll abide by yours.”

  After lunch, Mustafa took his leave of her. From the bedroom’s window, she watched the Mercedes drive away. As soon as the car disappeared, she turned her cell phone on and was relieved to see it had held its charge. Service she wasn’t worried about, but she needed it to be charged. She slipped from her room and tiptoed downstairs. She was determined to find something that would lead to where they were building the missile. From the kitchen, she could hear laughter and voices. Avoiding the kitchen, she began inspecting the house, opening closed doors, and committing the floor plan to memory. She only passed one guard who eyed her suspiciously. “I was wondering where there might be any books to read? I’d also love some paper to write on and a pen.”

  He looked at her as if she were a freak of nature. He grunted his disapproval, led her to a door and opened it. “There’s an office down this hallway.” Without a goodbye, he turned and left. Mustafa must have made it clear she had a free run of the place. She opened every door along the hallway and inspected the rooms. It was a suite of offices. Some monitors were on; their screens switched from camera to camera broadcasting live video of the exterior of the property. There were phones, computers, and scanners, but Mustafa had emphasized to access the technology you needed a password. She could have broken the code, she was an expert in hacking, but what would she gain? Besides, she didn’t want to jeopardize her relationship with Mustafa. She continued down the hallway and opened the door to an office with a large partner desk and a flat-screen on one wall. It was uncluttered and appeared to be more fitting of an executive. C’est bon!

  She entered and quietly closed the door behind her. She turned resting her back against the door and perused the room. A large desk and chair, computer, phone, and framed photos faced her. There was a photo of a young boy who looked much like Mustafa. In another photo, she recognized Mustafa with his father, uncle, and brother, their arms around each other’s shoulders, grins plastered upon their faces. She was struck by the incongruity of murderers, frozen in time, expressing love and humanity. Her thoughts were suddenly eclipsed by the memory of her brother. The last time she’d seen him was at a party at the Sorbonne. He’d accompanied her. She smiled recalling his teasing her that she needed to find a boyfriend because he wouldn’t always be there to fill the bill of dinner companion.

  Zara closed her eyes, the pain of his loss still as fresh as the day when she picked up the phone and learned of his murder. She shook her head driving the bittersweet memory of Jacob back into the recesses of her mind.

  One more photo rested on the desk. It stood by itself on the corner. The photo made her freeze. Surely, her eyes deceived her. She rubbed them to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. It was a picture of her and Mustafa taken the night of their first dinner. She didn’t recall them taking selfies, but someone, probably a bodyguard had snapped this candid shot. She looked ahead as if indifferent and he gazed with utter love and adoration at her. He’d placed this photo on his desk in a place of prominence. Her rejection meant nothing to a man who believed in destiny.

  Ignoring her quickening pulse, she focused on what she’d come to find. She needed to find the location of where they were assembling the missile.

  Opening each drawer she searched the contents, careful not to disturb or move anything to a place it didn’t belong. She only found the usual things expected in an office: checkbook, pens, receipts, paperclips, and rubber bands. A lower drawer held files, which looked promising. She extracted each one and thumbed through it, returning it to its hanging folder before taking out the next one. Several contained complete bios and personal information of leaders of the opposing political parties in Lebanon. Hit lists?

  Nothing she found was the information she needed. There was a credenza against one wall, and after making sure everything in the desk was just as she’d found it, she rose. Sliding open the flat panel in front she found blueprints. Voila! What have we here?

  She took them out and spread them on the floor. The blueprints were architectural renderings of a building, a remodel. She read the Arabic on the back. They were plans for the remodeling of a cannabis greenhouse and auxiliary
buildings. She knew Hezbollah with their Syrian Shiite counterparts controlled the drug trade in the Beqaa valley. A trade in excess of six billion dollars. A large architecturally altered greenhouse might be the perfect cover for the assembling of missiles. This was it; she had all the proof she needed. She took her cell out of her pocket and began taking photos of every drawing front and back. She continued to thumb through the drawings, shooting pics. By the time she’d finished she felt certain she’d found the proof she needed. Hezbollah had built a hidden missile assembly plant invisible from the sky. Invisible to satellites. She searched but could find no indication on the blueprints of where the cannabis farm was located, but she knew it couldn’t be far from Baalbek. Hezbollah’s center for the illicit drug trade was Baalbek. Where else would they have total control and no interference from the outside world?

  She needed to send Aryeh photos of what she’d found. She put everything back in the credenza, and grabbed a book from the shelf, paper, and pens, and slipped from the office and hurried to her bedroom.

  She was anxious to get the pics and her assessment to Aryeh. Rapidly she typed, Arrived in Beqaa Valley at Mustafa’s vineyard. Not far from Baalbek. I know where the missile is. I’ve attached pics of blueprints I found. Focus on Baalbek cannabis farms. Let me know you got these. TTYL

  She waited a few minutes for Aryeh to reply, but he didn’t text back. He will when he’s able to, in the meantime I need to gather as much info on this place as I can. She was beginning to worry; perhaps she’d underestimated Mustafa. She was beginning to feel like a prisoner. She changed into sneakers and stuffed the phone in her pocket.

  Dense fog greeted her. She pulled her jacket tight about her buttoning her collar. It had turned cold, and the property was mantled in a dense fog. She followed a path through row upon row of ancient grapevines. It felt like she was floating through a cloud. Olive trees appeared out of nowhere their looming presence disconcerting as they suddenly came into focus.